


Second Hand Faith

by birdsandivory



Category: Hetalia - Fandom, Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Established Relationship, FrUs - Freeform, M/M, Mental Instability, Minor Character Death, Non-Graphic Violence, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sensitive themes, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-29 03:00:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10845108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/birdsandivory/pseuds/birdsandivory
Summary: To what did he owe the years he'd spent suffering? Or pining, for that matter. Mild slash, oneshot filled to the brim with angst.





	Second Hand Faith

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you all enjoy angsty FrUS, because I do. And, I've made a few changes to the story, as the words that are italicized are meant to be musical song lyrics that Francis is listening to IN THE BACKGROUND - so the song is going on as the story is progressing. This really is just about Francis reminiscing over past events.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. I used Jeff Buckley's version of the song Hallelujah in some instances for the effect, they are italicized.
> 
> Follow me on [Tumblr](http://birdsandivory.tumblr.com) if you want to see more of my writing!

**Second Hand Faith**

_"I heard there was a secret chord that David played and it pleased the Lord._

_But you don't really care for music, do you?"_

It was understood that centuries ago, there was a well within his fragile, feeble heart for many - so entangled within the notion of love that it seemed impossible to reach the surface of what would become so dark an ocean, as it was - she caught his limbs in her tender grasp, plucking along at the strings of the organ as though she were waiting for simply the absolute moment in which watery fingers would sever so thin a chord with manicured fingernail and strangle from him the remaining breath he'd inhaled deeply when diving in. And how queer, at first, that it was perhaps the very ideal of so oft used a four letter word that drew him into the abyss - perhaps it was the longing within him, like the satisfying turn of key in lock that created the wish for tenderness among the bile of the unforgiving world. Never had the genuine nation been afraid, so sure that he could endure any heartache, for one should not break their heart to build from it a cage - no matter how beautiful and decorative the haven happened to be.

However,  _time_  had wore on.

And how demanding a mistress she was, stealing from him those who were precious, those he could only call his children - the very beings who grasped his flesh and made from it life, the very brittle in his bones that left him delightfully weak, exuberant in the fact that starved bodies thrived from the sacrifices he was entitled to persevere. How cruel that time had taken them, and with the decomposition of strung muscle and lonely hearts, the smallest bit of his own sanity had been pulled from his withered mind as well - and with each creature that fell within his borders, every beautiful ring of laughter from nature, he was reminded. Such a woman was  _Fate_ , reminding a fool that nothing was promised, reminding him that not even the deity that had given him purpose could do much for the passing of sand in the hourglass.

Still, a man of France would continue to grow strong.

_"And it goes like this, the fourth, the fifth-_

_The minor fall, the major lift;_

_The baffled king composing: Hallelujah."_

And not once did the simmering thought occur to the embodiment that the longer he sustained life within his inadequate vessel, the more lost he would become to the universe surrounding, disconnected from pathetic attempts to bring his people grandeur, beauty to mask the crumbling of his kingdom - for all of it, all of it...was in  _vain_. And what of hope? It was a foolish thought if there were one, a ruse if one could even call it such, because it was the crystallizing chill within him that spoke more truths than a proclaimed savior could pray to utter from plush pink lips. The whispers of the morrow could only claim a fall and the end of the respective effort won, but with so robust an adulation of nature and romanticism - the shell of one whom carried his mortals to what was a supposed promised land only emerged from conduct a simple duo of syllables.

_"Hallelujah...hallelujah..."_

Empty.

_"Well, your faith was strong, but you needed proof."_

There were countless battles, each reaping the smallest lyric of humanity from one who was not in the least bit human, his only approximation behind the hands of his people that so gently placed themselves along his spine to guide a lone king to whatever victory he was able to obtain from every clash of steel - every lesion that divided his flesh, and the lost promises and meaningless words that he had hoped to give true justification to. And as war and famine raced along painted maps, the earth continued to shrink in size, all of those whom had tugged themselves away met fiercely on the crimson fields and sealed all emotion; after all, none were sincerely granted the privilege. And how it  _hurt_ , burned at his very core much like the brand he'd been given the moment his ancestors left him land that he'd never wanted to own in the first place. It was all too unsettling, down to the very fabric of his abrupt existence.

Yet, as all goes, experience was respectfully what was rightfully given - as affection knew no place among struggling nations, he'd realized, though he had understood far too late. Even as centuries passed, the romantic thought had not learned from his mistakes and readily embraced his garish misgivings, forgiving easily - accepting too much, allowing for the end before it even began simply for the exchange of false happiness and what he could only label as kinship. Still, he believed the difference would bring about an outcome in favor of the better, of the peaceful partnership he could only have within the shattered fragments of his dreams during nights in which sleep escaped him after a mere few blissful moments. Though, within his distant memories, he had tasted such exalted calm and it was the only instance in which he could say that such promise existed - and if such a thing could exist once along their twisted timeline, how not again?

Such an idea kept him going.

And in the dustiest corners of a madman's mind lied the memory of when a tiny England, so young and impressionable, clung to the hem of his dress like a lost child in need of guidance. How early a stage of his life and yet, the Frenchman could think of no greater peace, though it was the very calm before the day of reckoning - the storm that tore from the soil the very roots he'd striven to keep grounded, life shriveling before him as blood and dirt caked between calloused flesh and torn nail. It was merely in the present day that a devastating realization had made itself known, the heart-wrenching comprehension that close bonds were a breeding ground for betrayal, misunderstanding - hatred that he willingly chose to avoid - it was the inevitable, the ineluctable, the  _inescapable_.

And when, when would the end arise?

A fragile heart had fought many, slaughtered and slain, for the good of his people - and many he'd fought for the sake of others, grinding his men, watching them fall in order for the countries he'd watched grow to succeed. Still, it was for naught, as others had spoke on the subject and called him a fool; a fool would be the weakest link in their fearsome chain, and a chain was only as strong as its weakest link, or so he had come to savor such a notion. And from then on, he found that those he'd saved - those he'd raised, those he'd helped, those he'd  _loved_  - found opportunity to turn to the opposition, breaking him a limb at a time, knowing full well that he would fall to his knees from the eventual abuse. And it was not quite the abuse of the body that repulsed him so, but the abuse of the heart, an organ that most would say held no tether to the soul.

But he knew otherwise.

From beaten and battered lips, bruised and littered with lacerations that scuttled his pride and ripped away from him his beauty, he could do nothing but pray and ask for liberation - for deliverance and salvation, though he knew he would never find such a thing among men when even the stars were out of reach despite the fact that one could cup them betwixt slender fingers from afar. The earth was too mundane, too broken to truly know how beautiful God is, and for that reason the French nation knew that so disenchanting a fact was why they were all being punished, why they were all sentenced to the end of the line. Still, on his lips remained the chants and hopes that one morning they would all awake, knowing that they were never the grander picture - simply pawns trudging for a purpose they would never realize.

And how he  _loved_  God. Perhaps more than any mortal breathing, he loved that in which he had never set eyes upon, that in which he had never felt but somehow knew the astounding absolution of words he'd never heard - knew the truest of adoration of prayer that brought forth the absolve running through his veins, the trust that ran deeper than his weakening bones, he knew. He knew that if his soul belonged to any, it was  _He_ , the very presence that built his body from the sinew of the dead before him and left him among the rocks and ocean to become an extension of His Divine Will. How he could love another, love many during the centuries he was sure to exist, and yet - no being could possibly hold his heart within so delicate a prison than the Almighty.

_"You saw her bathing on the roof."_

Until.

_"Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you."_

At first, he thought it humorous.

The birth of the New World had never been quite so fascinating, though he himself had taken part in the reaping, the wonder and accumulation of new knowledge had never been one to escape him - and he left such a plot of ground to others, quietly watching from afar once he'd had his piece - seizing opportunity when moment struck, still otherwise, he was less than aggressive. It was not his place, perhaps, to take more than he needed - not when he'd learned so arduous a lesson not long before, the grievances far more tolling than what he would gain from victory. And it was more rewarding to see the sprouting of a young flower, incredibly so, an anomaly that followed so closely the coattails of his enemy just as the small child in his arms had clung so fondly to himself.

The care he would see following such events from an otherwise dysfunctional, proclaimed heartless nation, was  _astounding_  - and gathered his interest as years had passed, the tenderness not quite so opposite his own for the boy he so affectionately called Mathieu and in all disbelief, he calculatedly observed as his former friend became one he could respect from within his own borders; silently, unknown. Unsure of how long such a notion would last, he was guarded in his stirring wonderment, though he would never cease to become surprised with every new instance that occurred - and for once in his long, miserable life, he could finally say that he understood the English nation and all that he stood for in regards to the discovery.

Later, he would chuckle at the very thought.

How painful it was to be torn in two, the very extension of love and adoration reaching out with stubbly fingers, eyes watering in just the same fashion as the battered man's own as he reached out - only for the one he called  _'Papa'_  to turn away, having given up on retrieving what had so rightfully been his, off to call the New World his brother without so much as a glance sparred for the one that he'd betrayed. What a devastatingly gorgeous lie it had been, each moment the boy only he had noticed held to his hair, clutched his clothing and laughed with the onslaught of attention - what a horrifically beautiful lie, one that only brought forth new feelings of disgust and a retaliation towards whatever peace happened to be heralded between the feuding countries, and plans to level the field in any way he knew possible. If he could not have back his beloved boy...

A one Alfred would do.

_"And she tied you to her kitchen chair-"_

A rigid partnership had begun and out of hatred bloomed a revitalizing kinship, for he had stolen away that of which was equal - to the simplest of matters - to the one who was taken by act of thievery from himself. Though it was not all in the ideals of his own, for his enemy was not only  _his_ , but that of many - a traitor to the very filthy core he prided his nation upon, and with giddy confidence, the weary Frenchman foresaw war coming. However, he did not foresee the breaking of his guard, the fall of the very walls that had kept him safe while forging bonds out of spite and he was drug to his knees once more; a position he found himself quite used to, praising a boy who would change just about everything he knew to be true, the acceptance leaving a bitter taste upon his tongue once he'd understood its meaning.

_"And she broke your throne._

_Ans she cut your hair."_

France had surrendered, yet there had been no war.

_"And from your lips, she drew the 'Hallelujah.'"_

If he were speaking to himself in the past, he would have surely spat on the older visage, angry with himself for giving into matters of the heart - for finding an article of admiration within so young a nation, barely enough to be called such among the gods of war, those whom had built their land on the backs of ancestors long forgotten. A younger France would have laughed cruelly before him, berating for yet another  _failure_  on the tally, having become  _weak_  to a pair of blue eyes cultivated too early - deep as the sky, far out as the ocean, but still a gem barely tumbled and hardly polished. Surely he was better than that, despite all that he so willingly gave to the younger; men, supply, rescue - it had all been laid bare for the taking, and ceruleans did nothing but watch, signing the acceptance papers while shielding his wounded pride behind a wave of spun gold strands.

But the boy was so young, so young.

And for once, maybe he wanted to do the right thing.

_"Hallelujah..."_

It was only brotherly affection, he assured his racing heart, the way he so closely knitted himself to the American over the years - providing advice, protection, wishing for nothing but peace and flourishing land. It was simple affection, familial if anything, and he could imagine the boy was his own son if he reached into such an idea, the notion of a guardian - one that the crown of Europe could never have wished to become - was all he allowed himself to think at so early a point during the turn of the hourglass, for all he had ever loved and longed for had been pulled ever so agonizingly from his tenacious grasp. When a bond so new and painstakingly forged had come about, how could he permit such emotion to bring it to ruin?

Therefore, he did not.

However, decades did nothing to stave the ache in his heart and as boy became man, he so deluded himself in _lovesick_ desire - though the heart of Paris could only look on from beside so fine a hero despite the fact. The years had not bruised their alliance, or so the nation of France had thought, and it did naught for the snuffing of the fire within the cavity that had long since become empty - devoid of what it meant to truly feel alight with life when away from the beacon of hope. It was a pain he had not felt since the days of withering martyrs and destruction over lost love, and because of such a thing, he vowed to never speak of it - leaving all unrequited thoughts for the omnipresent God he worshiped so devotedly.

_"Well, baby, I've been here before._

_I've seen this room, and I've walked this floor."_

Still, he could feel it with each well placed step, the cascading thrum of his fingertips along each and every document he'd ever signed for the sake of America - the click of his boots upon the creaking floors were like that of cross thunder, and the lightning that preceded him was far out of his lonely grasp, but still. He could feel it; the longing that came with the visits, the sadness that accompanied the stares, the unbearable doubt that coupled with unsteady handshakes - it was there, always, no matter how much he would will it all away. And simultaneously, he wished to bask in the radiance of it all, how deeply he felt for the way blond locks would tickle the man's nose when he read - the glasses that slid forward and were never adjusted, the vast changes in emotion that were but a tireless tidal wave, dragging him to a watery grave.

And he could only want for more.

The longing could not steal from his happiness when in the other's presence, as the true unmatched thrill with the simplest of actions; the brush of hands, walking in perfect unison, laughter in pitches that harmonized spectacularly together rather than apart. No, that could not be taken from him, no matter what the circumstance - for he would rather have that meager, small blessing than face the loneliness he convinced himself was well deserved within the confines of his seemingly lively home. What once was a place of exuberance, laughter, and whimsy had faded into a cold and unrecognizable territory during the years in which he had struggled with new life - but there was an unbridled beauty that made for just the most absolute of perfection in time.

It was hard to say whether or not they were the best or worst moments of his existence.

_"You know, I used to live alone before I knew you._

_And I saw your flag on the marble arch-"_

And then, came war.

A stalemate, a battle of trickery and deceit, a  _Cold_  War that did nothing to damage himself - only the man he had so come to love over the century or so he had drawn breath, and in turn, his own vessel could feel the ache. How worn he looked then, America, the grand and beautiful - the home of freedom and new ideals, aging by the day, agonizing over demons the nation of France could not see nor hear, but knew were real enough. Every man had faced the creatures at one time or another, but it would pain him until the end of his existence that such tendril of darkness lapped at the newborn heart so very soon, just barely upon his feet and fighting for what he believed in.

It was the trials that made France fear for his sanity.

_"But love is not a victory march._

_It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah."_

And it was clear just how easily he had lost it.

_"Hallelujah..."_

There had never been such tension in the air, such heavy means of suffocation that wrapped around his throat much like the fingertips of an enemy ready to steal his breath, but it meandered wherever his suffering love had resided from that moment on - the joyous instances they had once shared became few, and with each passing day the Frenchman knew he was losing the man's trust, becoming just another face in the crowd; just another being whom could be the possible wielder of the knife within his strong back. And in a warped and melancholic way, the nation understood and knew his place in the fray, knowing that Alfred was simply attempting to save himself - to fix all that seemed to go awry under the watchful eyes of the planet, yet that did not mean it hurt any less, for just as before, he was losing his hold on the one he cared for most.

And it had not mattered that he'd been attacked by the same man he'd tried to save, mattered not that he had bitten a literal  _bullet_ , tasted a fist more than once - allowed himself to be savagely torn apart at the drop of a dime because of a mere inkling of mistrust, it mattered not, not when he would still do anything to keep their bond from being severed. It was more than just friendship then, more than any union they had thought to keep with one another; it was a wish for something far too human to even comprehend and with it, fear became one with happiness, erasing any sliver of common sense France still had within his fantastical mind. And it was that very onslaught of emotion that kept him from running away, escaping to the safe haven that was his stygian solace instead of the kingdom he had grown with his own two hands, and it was that conviction that led him to continuously prove his salt at any cost - even if he had to suffer death at the hand of America more than a few times.

It would be worth it.

Or so he convinced himself.

_"Well, there was a time when you'd let me know,_

_What's really going on below,_

_But now, you never show that to me, do you?"_

Convinced himself, he did, that even at the expense of a broken and withered heart - he would stand by Alfred no matter the cost, if just to see him rise once more and face the terror he was wrought. Yet, it seemed a farce, as he continually failed in his attempts to relieve himself of such an ache - even more so when the American's twisted sense of justice brought nothing but unwarranted death and an uncalled for fear that crept into the haunted minds of his people. And he could remember so clearly one moment in which he stood, hand in hand with what was his ray of sunshine, reaching up to press free fingertips to the scar upon the back of his neck - a reminder of how he'd experienced living and dying in the very same instant, and how it brought tears to his eyes to watch humans that did not belong to him cry out in torment, the fall of his affliction a dam broken when his eyes gazed upon the wicked smile adorning his partner's face. Still, they had moved passed that and within his heart, he had forgiven Alfred - praying silently within his chambers that God would forgive him as well and  _"understand that he is only a boy wishing to find his way."_

In the present, he would believe that such a way was never found.

But broken, shattered, ruined or not - Francis Bonnefoy was a loyal man, especially to  _him,_ though a nation first and foremost; he was an ally to America just the same and would be until they were both paved over and called a name anew. It was simply the way things were and he would accept it with the will of a warrior, no less. However, he could feel the lands grow dim again, as emotions were as unpredictable as the sea - no matter how beautiful they seemed at first glance. And he had never quite gotten used to how quickly he would become ally or enemy, each fluctuation as painful as the one before, but it was dealt with just as swiftly with smoke and wine - for even he needed assistance in keeping at bay his virtues.

During such times, he only offered his tender care.

_"But, remember when I moved in you?_

_And the holy dove was moving, too._

_And every breath we drew was 'hallelujah.'"_

And at times, he prayed more than required by the church.

And far more than was accepted.

Yet, he found his prayers useful, perhaps needed in so difficult a time, as Alfred so readily denied God with all of his being - a fact that chilled the peaceful nation's very soul, an element that bit his heart with frost and set aflame his wishes, but he could do nothing but accept him all the same. Instead of asking for reconsideration, instead of pleading to man in uniform to look within, to have faith; he knew it was simply a matter of carrying all sense of worship on his own back, saving them both from sin and if God would sooner abandon one for another, he hoped deep within that He would not abandon one so young and misguided - as there was still hope of saving him from the clutches of despair and giving new meaning to the evil that had surrounded them both in a matter of years. And he had never dismissed the Lord himself, no - not France - for God had listened to him that day and had bestowed upon him a gift he thought  _inconceivable_ , however, once his affections were returned, he realized he could never say  _no_.

_"Hallelujah..."_

However jubilant the emotion, hardship still befell them and it only increased the Frenchman's need to hold tightly to the nation he adored, whatever monsters lurked within his self-destructive mind - Francis vowed to chase them to a place in which they would never return, even if such a burden would cling to his own sanity, it could never harm him so long as he was well and able to hold the man within his arms. And more than once he had struggled with misunderstandings, with the fears that the much younger nation carried upon his shoulders which often led to wild and frightening breaks in composure, denying each and every explanation given - and with all of his being, the nation of France would retaliate, and the room would rattle with the repetition of a strangled  _"I'm right!"_  And he could see it within the present, how delicate hands palmed over tanned cheeks with tender touches, how urgently he spoke in order to try and change the mind of one whom couldn't understand the uncertainty of the universe - and with each syllable, he could only urge him that  _"we don't lose the things we love because we say that we love them, Alfred; we lose them because the world is_ _cruel_ _."_

With whatever peace they would fight so hard for, he hoped to counter some of that cruelty with light.

Yet, the world never seemed as ominous as it did in those days.

_"Maybe there's a God above._

_But all I've ever learned from love-_

_Was how to shoot somebody who outdrew you."_

And it pained him, how forever distant he would be from his beloved, how there would always be a wall around his heart - around his mind, full of fear and misconception, laced with wounds that would never fully heal; and it was a feeling worse than death, a ghost that would forever haunt him in his loneliest hours. Gentle touches would do their best, a thumb would trace over the frowning lips he revered so much, and his saddened eyes would soften still as he would attempt to whisper consoling words - wishing that the man would see that  _"it's not your fault that you have lost the things you've loved so much"_  and  _"you are not a beacon of ill providence, no matter how fiercely you believe otherwise."_  And how steadily he spoke of God, of how he prayed that one day, Alfred would come to see such a thing, because he deserved  _relief_ and  _"if my loving you can help in the slightest, then I will never give up on that, even if you one day decide to leave me behind."_  It was known fact then that if he was left with the knowledge that he had never confessed how much the man meant to him, the ache of losing Alfred would surely be even worse than any wound, _"painful enough to cleave my heart in two."_

For as dearly as he adored everything that was America...

_"And it's not a cry that you hear at night."_

...he refused to subject himself to that risk.

_"It's not somebody who's seen the light!"_

_"If I broke from that, nothing in this world could put me back together. That is why, until words can no longer leave my body, I will say 'I love you,' whether you want me to or not."_

_"It's a cold and it's a broken 'hallelujah.'"_

A blink.

And another.

Pen poised in hand, the ink had dripped unceremoniously onto paper and he'd realized that his musings had taken much more than a mere moment of his time - leaving him gazing into a shelf of old fashion magazines, expressionless visage drawn cold despite the warm temperature of the room and for the moment he was convinced that the chill pulled him from his reverie. However, he soon found that it was not so and that merely the American block radio he had upon a table across the room had ceased in playing song, the silence that wore on feeling terribly off kilter and out of place.

_"Hallelujah."_

Drawing his gaze across the room, he settled upon the contraption.

_"Hallelujah..."_

There was no movement, not a single disturbance in the air.

_"Hallelujah."_

Just another's hand on the dial.

_"Hallelujah..."_

**Author's Note:**

> Sol.


End file.
